


fais moi la passe (j'mets le but)

by milleseptcent



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2018, French National Team, M/M, Pre-OT3, and I cant blame yall for not being interested in the farmer league tbh, basically this is kimpembe and draxler flirting with thauvin, but it works. I hate how well it works, edits on 14/11/2018, explanatory note added bc no one knows who's who in ligue 1, inspired by draxler pulling thauvin up during the om/psg game and how satisfying that was, listen I know this combination of ships is weird as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milleseptcent/pseuds/milleseptcent
Summary: In Russia, Presnel plays a few rounds ofspot the difference, and wins more than a game.





	fais moi la passe (j'mets le but)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vulcanistics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcanistics/gifts).



> thank you for clicking on that weird pairing. if you're not sure what you're doing there and who these people are, there is a handy little explanation in the end notes
> 
> title from Jul's Fais moi la passe (yes I have terrible taste in rap, and yes you must suffer too)

The hotel rooms in Istra feel cold and desolate like a Russian winter.

Presnel lays in his king size bed, looking for sleep, and when he doesn’t find it he goes to knock on Matuidi's door. Blaise grumbles but he moves over on the bed to make room for him.

“It's so dumb they put us in single-person rooms,” Presnel explains. “International break is much more fun with roommates.”

He waits for an answer, but Blaise has already got his earphones back on, focused on the show he's watching on his laptop. Presnel pouts and makes himself comfortable on the pillows, craning his neck to read the subtitles over Blaise’s shoulder.

Blaise shoots him a contemplative look and purses his lips. He’d been Presnel’s roommate back at Clairefontaine, before they'd taken off for Russia; he’d listened to him toss and turn at night, and complain in the morning about being cold and the bed being too soft or too hard or _just not right_.

Blaise sighs and unplugs his earphones so that Presnel can hear the dialogues, hoping that it distracts him from coming up with any more bullshit.

 

·····

 

During the days, it's not that bad.

Presnel laughs and runs around and plays his music loud. He dances and jokes and nudges and cheats at cards.

He slings an arm around Ousmane’s shoulders or around Paul's middle. He jumps on Samuel's back, kisses Alphonse's cheek, sits close to Rapha on the bus, pinches Kylian's cheeks.

He keeps warm.

But at night, Presnel hangs up on Julian's smile and his goodbyes and good lucks and the  _I love you_ that they’re still too hesitant to say out loud, and he has to burrow under his luxurious sheets to forget Russia is a land of everlasting ice.

Watching Germany's games doesn't help. Julian is on the bench and his frown etches itself deeper on his features as the matches unfold, slow and frustrating. The team does act a bit more lively when Presnel comes to visit Julian at their hotel, on the one occurrence when Germany and France are in the same city for a day.

He kisses Julian in the elevator, giddy and a bit desperate, and regretfully lets go of his hand as they step into the corridor where Trapp ask him if he’s interested in a game of Fifa with the others.

Presnel plays terribly, too busy defending himself in wonky German as Özil nags at him about something he only half understands – keeping Julian safe and being good to him, or something. Rüdiger and Boateng laugh themselves silly at his helpless struggle.

Presnel loses all his games – but he does so with Julian half sitting on him, Presnel’s head resting on his shoulder, occasionally pressing kisses to the side of his neck, and the defeat feels exhilarating. He’s got a spring in his step as he walks out of the hotel and back in the cold Russian streets.

For all that the German team beat Presnel at Fifa, they lose their actual games, and leave the world cup heavy with disappointment.

Russia manages to seem even colder with Julian’s absence. Presnel catches glimpses of him like flashes of heat; a square jaw in the crowd in the stands, deep dark eyes in the hotel room staff, long legs on the other end of the pitch. He shakes himself out of it.

 

·····

 

The coach gives them the doping test schedule, and _Kimpembe - Thauvin_ stands in the middle of the list.

Presnel likes Thauvin. He smiles all the time, and he’s always up for annoying Kylian or for playing a prank on Griezmann. He laughs at Presnel’s jokes while they wait in the bleach-white room, and Presnel looks at him from the corner of his eyes.

The line of his nose is the same, Presnel thinks, and so is the hair; but the angle of his jaw is not quite right, lacking in sharpness. Presnel mentally counts the differences until Florian gives him a weird look, and he realizes he is staring. He turns away, but keeps counting on his fingers behind his back.

 

·····

 

Florian is running ahead of Presnel during training, and before Presnel can hold himself back, he’s catching up with him, and he only barely keeps himself from slinging his arm around him.

He looks down at Florian’s feet to aim a pass during warm-up, and notes his unfamiliar boots. He keeps counting.

He sits next to Florian at the dinner table, ponders on his voice and his loud laugh, adds them to his tally. In the bus he looks in curiosity at his ears, his round chin, the way he always seems to be smiling at some secret thing.

He passes him in the corridor, still counting. Florian doesn’t reach out to him as he walks by – why would he? Flo’s hand doesn’t close tight around his waist when Presnel puts his arm around him either, and he shakes his embrace off after a while. At lunch, he chatters with Mandanda about inside jokes that Presnel doesn’t understand.

Still, Presnel has to remind himself to keep counting the differences.

 

·····

 

It doesn’t help that the others notice, too.

“Yo Julian, can you pass me the salt?” Alphonse calls out at lunch.

He gets the salt along with a raised eyebrow and a mocking smile, and he looks confused for a moment before Kylian bursts out laughing as well.

“Wait, Julian, as in Draxler?” Tolisso asks, leaning over the table to look at them, and then Mendy is saying:

“Hey, isn’t that the guy Presko really likes?”

“Yeah, Presko, isn’t that the guy you really like?” Matuidi repeats, honey sweet, because he is a traitor, apparently.

Presnel shakes his head at them and stabs intently at his pasta.

In the play room, Kylian drops down on a couch between Alphonse and Florian; and Presnel ignores his contented sigh that it almost feels like being at home.

Rami’s arm is on Presnel's shoulder as he teases Thauvin about how “You look like a Parisian, and I don’t talk to Parisians, right, Presko, I don’t?”. Presnel mutters that the Parisian certainly wishes Adil would stop talking to him, and pays no mind to his wounded expression.

Instead, he keeps his count. He runs his laps with Flo, notes that he’s behind him in races – Julian is always close, catching up to him.

Thauvin bickers with Presnel in the locker room, asking him to add all sorts of awful rappers from Marseille to the playlist – “If you don’t do it for me, do it for Mendy!”, he cries, defiant in a way Julian isn’t, and Presnel watches his ever-present smile, notes how his lips are fuller than Julian’s. He turns his head, hides his hand behind his back and counts on.

 

·····

 

They win, and it’s like a dream and an explosion in gold and mist. Everything feels too real, the colors so bright Presnel can almost taste them – and at the same time they’re walking through an illusion. It feels like forever, and like the minutes are ticking away madly, and before he realizes it, Presnel is standing in a kitchen somewhere, looking for a beer after Lloris said he’d had too much of the stronger stuff.

There’s a noise behind him, and his heart misses a beat as he turns around. Presnel doesn’t know if the excitement thrumming under his skin is from how Thauvin’s alcohol-blurred face reminds him of Julian; or from how Presnel can definitely tell it’s Flo and not anyone else, standing in the kitchen with him.

Fuck it, Presnel thinks, and he grabs a bottle of vodka from the table. He takes a swig and can barely feel the burn in his throat, his senses fuzzy and warm. He hands it to Thauvin who takes it with a laugh. The sound is not _right_ , it doesn’t quite feel like it should – like the bright lights of Parc des Princes, like the breathlessness of victory, like Presnel is coming apart and being put back together – but still, it’s comfortable, like card games and easy banter.

Presnel tries to count. One, his mind supplies, and comes up blank. What is he counting? One, two – what even comes after that?

Presnel can’t remember, and why did he ever care. This all feels too good.

One, he tries again, but it’s pointless, and Flo is smiling at him, his mouth on the bottle. Presnel laughs too, takes the bottle back and drinks again, and then he leans against Thauvin and just like that, he’s kissing him.

Their lips are crushed together, and Presnel feels a hand on his shoulder and he’s being kissed back and his heart is beating hard in his ears.

Until he’s being gently pushed away, and he opens his eyes to the out-of-focus view of an almost-familiar but not-at-all-familiar face, and a big, apologetic smile, and of course Thauvin would smile even now, cause he’s Flo and Flo smiles all the time –

“You’re a weird one, you,” Florian says.

Presnel laughs again, and grips the bottle tighter as he leaves the kitchen, looking for the loud music to fill the hole that he suddenly feels in his chest.

 

·····

 

Presnel is back at the kitchen door a mere thirty minutes later, properly chastised by Hugo for his drink of choice, but he stops before he can stagger inside.

Thauvin is still there, but he’s not alone; Presnel recognizes the tall frame of Mandanda. He’s about to push at the door and call out to them, but then – he doesn’t, and just watches.

They’re standing close to one another, dancing to the beat as a speaker somewhere plays zouk music. Or rather, Steve is dancing, and Florian is stumbling along his steps, laughing hard and carefree. His hands are on Steve’s hips as he tries to look down at his feet, tries to move in sync with him, but he keeps tripping over himself, shaking with giggles.

Steve’s smile is amused as he looks at him, but his eyes are soft and his hands possessive on Flo’s waist, and then Florian looks back up at Steve and smiles too, playful, and he nudges at him until he’s got him crowded against the wall, hands moving from his hips to frame his face, and – oh.

Presnel backs away. It seems like he’ll have to make do with the vodka, Hugo be damned.

 

·····

 

Somewhere on the way between Russia and France, a couple of awkward conversations are held.

Alphonse pulls at Presnel’s sleeve on the bus while everyone is asleep, and whispers that Kylian told him about Florian.

“Did Flo tell anyone else?” Presnel mumbles.

“I don’t think so. He just told Kylian ‘cause he’s you’re teammate and he wanted someone to check on you.”

“Yeah. Well.”

Alphonse raises an eyebrow and Presnel looks resolutely at the back of the seat in front of him, until Alphonse sighs and pats him on the shoulder.

“It’s fine. We’re almost back in Paris.”

“Yeah,” Presnel says, and doesn’t get any more sleep for the rest of the bus ride.

In the airport, he pulls Thauvin to the side under the pretence of going to get candy.

“I’m sorry about yesterday night.”

“Sorry about what?” Flo asks, and Presnel looks at him unimpressed until Thauvin laughs and rubs at his neck. “Oh, that. It’s actually… Fine with me, you know. I was only worried about you, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. But isn’t Steve, like, mad at me?”

“What does this have to do with Steve?”

Presnel stutters and earns himself a grin from Florian.

“Oh, right. He doesn’t care. I think he finds it funny, actually.”

“And I’m the weird one?” Presnel asks, eyebrows raised high, and Flo laughs quietly.

"Well. Unless you're trying to replace Steve, and then I've got to warn you, you've got another thing coming..."

"Yeah, no, thanks," Presnel smirks, and suddenly he hears himself speak up again. “You know we’re coming to Marseille, in November, Drax and I. Well, and the rest, of course…” Florian snorts at that, but his eyes are shining with interest. “You should come hang out, after the game. Have a bit of fun.”

“Sure,” Florian says. “Sure.”

As they go back to their seats, Mandanda sends Presnel a smile and a raised eyebrow, and Presnel tries not to let his face go warm. Thauvin shoos Guillaume the cameraman away to steal his seat next to the goalkeeper, leaning his head on his shoulder and muttering something to him. Presnel turns away towards his seat, already taking out his phone to write to Julian.

 

·····

 

After it’s all over, after the celebration at home, after all the noise and the parties in Paris and Julian showing up and kissing Presnel until his head spins –

After the Marseille squad leave Clairefontaine, Flo finding Presnel to ask “I’ll see you at the classique, then?”, and Mandanda winking at him –

After the season begins and international break comes and goes and red cards are given and records are set and games are lost and others won –

Presnel finds himself sitting in a bar in Marseille, high on victory, watching Julian and Florian’s mirroring smiles as they joke about Julian’s celebration. Presnel’s fingers itch to start his count again, but he resists. Instead, he lays his hand on the inside of Julian’s thigh, and casually moves his leg to rest against Flo’s. Florian laughs a little bit at the contact, a blush spreading on his neck, and Presnel grins.

“I like him,” Julian says later, when they’re curled together at the back of the plane back to Paris. “A lot,” he adds, and Presnel hides his smile in Julian’s neck.

“More than me?” He jokes, making Julian snort.

“Shut up,” he answers, and Presnel does, closing his eyes and letting himself fall asleep, warm and content.

**Author's Note:**

>  **explanatory note** : Florian Thauvin is a french player who looks a lot like Julian Draxler and who is forward at Olympique de Marseille, PSG's archnemesis in the Ligue 1. Steve Mandanda is OM's main goalkeeper, and Thauvin and him as a _special_ kind of relationship. there's an interview out there where Thauvin cries about how much he loves Mandanda. it's great.
> 
> thanks to Mavis for being once again my main supporter!!
> 
> English still isn't my first language and I still need a beta so if you're down for that hmu!
> 
> find me on tumblr @sombrebail


End file.
